


Soft Dawn of Morning

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Japanese Mythology, Original Content, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Apocalypse, Cunnilingus, Exophilia, F/M, Green Apocalypse, Kitsune, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-02-19 16:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22934266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: You're careful and precise, but you have to be if you want to survive. This stumbling, wounded creature might ruin your chances, especially because he's not... of your kind.
Relationships: Kitsune/Reader, Monster/Reader
Comments: 17
Kudos: 463





	1. Chapter 1

There is a dewy taste to the air despite the mist slowly receding into the hillside. The sky is already a warm, cloudless blue, the sun mercilessly razing the forest in its heat. It’s going to be a hot day, you can already tell, but you still face it with the calm, steely determination that you have managed to dredge up for the past couple of years. Sweat already begins to bead at the top of your forehead as you tie back the jagged strands of your amateur and hasty haircut, letting out the only form of frustration that you allow yourself these days: a long, drawn-out sigh.

There is a thick layer of mossy growth on the ground, something you have helped nurture to the best of your ability, for it makes your movement around your territory silent. Especially with the hiking boots you wear, tested, and worn with the kind of use that comes from having only one pair of shoes. Really, you should probably go out scouting for some new ones, but that would likely land you in the nearest town, which is a couple days’ walk. You haven’t slept outside in the night since the incident that left your previous settlement… well, overrun, and you aren’t keen on doing that again.

The sigils you have carved into the trees are uncorrupted, the deep, jarring knife marks in the wood just as prominent as the last time you reinforced them, keeping any dryads from culminating within the bark. You go around the perimeter, hand on your knife, eyes glaring out into the forest in case one of them tries pulling a fast one on you, unable to relax for one moment. Once the morning patrol is done, you begin going through the berry bushes picking out a modest breakfast, then go around to where you have discreetly planted potato crops.

Hopefully, to any eye but your own, the forest will continue to seem wholly untamed and untouched by human hand. You need to eat, but you also can’t just start a garden willy-nilly, oh no, that would be the same as building a fire or further uncovering your hidden solar panels; creating a beacon to let anyone in the area know that you are present. Human survivors like you aren’t your primary concern, everyone seems to have an understanding that solidarity as opposed to fucking each other up is going to be better in the long run. Most of them, anyway, it’s… well, it’s complicated.

Winter is always a concern, but your canning abilities have greatly improved with the amount of time you’ve spent doing it, so as long as you have a crop to actually preserve, you should be fine. Just based on the greenery growing out from the ground, things are going according to plan thus far. After a long morning of tending to your spaced out garden, ears open for any source of noise besides your own, you stretch, taking a moment to pop your back, and then head back to your alcove buried in the mountain’s natural caves.

A stick snaps behind you, and you are quick to pull out your knife, kneeling into the soft earth and staring into the direction it came from. You haven’t heard or seen any signs of the Bacchanalia in your perimeter searches for months, but there’s always tomorrow, right? Every muscle in your body is taut, ready to both fight and flee because in the few times you’ve managed to come across the Bacchanalia, it has always ended in bloodshed.

A man steps out from behind a tree, most likely summoned by your sudden silence. If he was following you, he must have known the jig was up the moment you stopped moving, poising for attack instead. But you are quick to discern that your first observation was not, in fact, correct, because there’s a bushly tail and you’re since over ninety-nine percent that furries aren’t really an active movement anymore, that’s the real deal. So he- it- it’s one of them, the earthborn.

You glance over at your runes, but they aren’t reacting to the presence of the- the creature, so that’s so very disheartening. To your credit, though, you’ve seen them work before, so it’s not like you’re just carving random things into the trees. Still, something’s clearly off, because the man that has his heads up over his head to show that he is unharmed is decidedly not human, and those that are not human are to be deeply distrusted and treated with the utmost scrutiny. It is, after all, their fault the earth has gone to hell.

“How did you get past the protection?” Your voice is quiet, low, fearing that there are more from where they come from.

He offers a wobbling smile. Something’s wrong. “Your carvings don’t apply to my kind.”

Ohhh, better make a note of that. “And what would your kind be called?”

His head cocks to the side, and even though he is wearing a mask, you can feel his eyes looking over your battle-ready posture. “I could tell you,” he says, so very slowly, “but I must ask something of you first.”

The first rule of human conduct is to never, ever make deals with the earthborn, for their kind like to twist and pull at words until something barely resembling the original contract stands. You raise your knife higher, “state your end of the bargain first.”

His robes are black and silky, going down past his ankles, and the front is easy enough for him to pull down to the side, revealing a large, bleeding wound slashed across his chest. Despite whatever hardships have befallen you, your base instinct to run up and begin to tend to the bloodied flesh still remains, yet you resist it and remain where you are, waiting.

“Heal me.”

The demand is so absolute and preposterous that you’re taken aback for a few minutes. “Humans don’t have magic anymore.”

He lets out a frustrated breath. “I am well aware. Bandages, salves, you have those things, do you not?”

“I do,” you assent, slowly.

“Then use those.”

You pause, running over the egregious demanding of his tone. “And what guarantee do I have that you don’t merely offer useless information?”

“You can test the wards’ strength on me once I am well.”

“And what would keep you from either killing me in my sleep or leaving early to report my location?”

“I give you my word.” He’s getting desperate, you can tell by the way his words begin to slur.

“And what good is that?”

“My honor hinges on upholding our agreement.”

“I don’t really put much stock on ‘honor’ these days,” you say, looking over the dirt caked on your hands in a show of disinterest.

He doesn’t know what to say to convince you, and good riddance to that. The more he tries, the less you trust him. Finally, unexpectedly, he gets on his knees, breath shuddering as he uses the muscles along the wound to move. His hands are on the moss, his head tilting up so that he can beseech you. “Please. I have nowhere else to go.”

You stare at him, dead silent. Unfortunately, the show of humbleness does something within your heart, which isn’t entirely damaged from the whole apocalypse ordeal, so you let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Get off the ground. If you fucking try anything, I swear to whatever god is listening that your wound will be the least of your worries.”

He struggles back up, mumbling something in agreement. At the sight of his wobbling legs, you step over, much against your base instinct, and help him up, swinging one of his arms around your shoulders. That must have hurt him, if slightly, because he grunts, but he doesn’t utter a single word of resistance as you begin to walk back in the direction of your home. His weight doesn’t bother you too much, you’ve long since adapted to the harsh realities of living off the land, and he seems silently grateful for the help.

‘Home’ is a shallow, natural cave carved within the hillside. The entrance is just barely large enough for you to slide through, either on your stomach or back, so you have to gently coach the earthborn to do the same. You push in first, showing him how to do so, then stand right at the wall, slowing his fall so that he doesn’t do any more hard to his already mangled body. There’s a grunt of pain on his end as you awkwardly grab at his chest and arms, though it’s better than letting him kiss the stone floor, which is what his trajectory looked like before you stepped in.

There isn’t any place to put him except your bed, which you are chagrined to admit. And, well, your ‘bed’ isn’t exactly a box spring and mattress combo, since you can’t haul a whole piece of furniture through that small opening. It’s more of a pile of blankets that you’ve managed to collect; thick, fluffy, thin, and such, as well as enough pillows to alleviate any of the pressure points in your back and neck. Gingerly, you lay him down, and he spreads out against your makeshift bed without complaint.

Now, you don’t exactly have any of the promised salves on hand, per se, but you do have an extensive forest to forage through and a book full of local herbs and fauna to help find what you need. Plus, this wouldn’t be your first time actually making the stuff, you’ve had to patch up your fellow humans before, and you’re certain you will end up doing so again. Really all you need is a few hours out in the forest to get the ingredients together. At this moment, though, you have some scrounged painkillers you can offer him.

“I’m going to open your, er, shirt-thing,” you say in warning, fingers pulling at the carefully hemmed edges of his kimono. The wound is extensive, running from one end of his shoulder down to the underside of his pec, and the center is concerningly deep. After a moment of hesitation, as the medicine was incredibly hard to come by, you offer him one of the pink pills and a drink of carefully filtered water to wash it down.

He drinks the water like he is dying of dehydration, clearing through the first cup and the second without taking a moment to breathe. You have to hold his head up as he does so, as he seems to be growing weaker by the moment, and you cut him off at the third glass. Of all things right now, you especially don’t need him vomiting all over your bed. Washing your clothes in a nearby stream is nerve-wracking enough, having to thoroughly go through each and every one of your blankets at the same time might very well be the literal death of you.

Next, you stop the bleeding. The earthborn was right when he suggested you would have bandages, you always have those ready, just in case. You don’t waste any of the fresh wrappings, just yet, you mainly focus on stopping the bleeding with clean, previously boiled rags. Inwardly, you want to cringe, seeing the precious energy of your solar panels go to one of them, but you don’t voice your concerns.

Instead, you stack the rags, gently applying pressure, and wait. There is something remarkably eerie about the way that this creature holds himself, that’s for certain, and you’re very sure that most of it stems from his mask. It’s blank, cold, staring upwards in an uncaring glare. At the same time, the earthborn’s actual irises watch you with such a calculated stare that it makes you want to either shrink back into the shadows and wait for him to tear you to pieces, or set him on fire and fight the beast head-on within a second’s notice. Either one is just as likely, really.

You tell him what you have to do, go out, foraging through the forest to find the proper remedies you need. Not that they hold any kind of candle to the medicine of what once was, but it’s the best you can manage, given the circumstances. He seems to understand, though the mask really hinders your observation of any kind of emotion he might offer. You suppose that must be the point.

In any case, here you are, back in the heat of the day as the cicadas screeching from all sides. You wipe a thick layer of sweat from your forehead and continue on through the trees, eyes low, looking for exactly what you need. Oh, it takes a long while, that’s for sure, but you manage to find some growth that offers the best antibacterial properties in place of penicillin. Thoroughly pleased, you’re careful to tuck the little bits into your satchel, reaching your hand in through the canvas fabric every now and then to count them once more, just in case you missed the amount.

As you turn around, intending to go back to your patient, you hear the faint drum beat and screaming of a loud, wild celebration of nature. Oh, boy, that’s not good, not good at all, because that’s the signature announcement that the Bacchanalia are in the area, and that is good for neither the creature or you. The only valid thing about them is that they are human, like you, so they bleed when stabbed, but their main advantage is their numbers, and whatever special drug or frenzy their patron puts them in.

Biting your lip down tightly, you stay low to the ground, your palms, sticky with sap and sweat, clinging against the forest growth as you try to discern exactly where the sounds are coming from. The runes you’ve carved into the trees, though protective against the spirits that walk the earth so freely, do little to keep a fellow human out. In fact, they do the opposite, for having such methods of protection up might very well be the most obnoxious sign of a survivor that you might muster, you don’t even think that building a bonfire could screw you more.

Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes and hope that they’re just passing through, but knowing your luck, it’s probably time to cut your losses and haul ass out of your home. As you creep back, making sure to cover up any kind of tracks, you wonder about how absurdly close the arrival of your wounded earthborn guest, and the Bacchanalia are… because it’s suspicious, to say the least. Coincidences don’t exactly happen anymore.

First things first, though, you need to take apart your solar panels and hide them away in your little cave. It takes a few tools, but they’re reasonably easy to set up, pull down, move, groove, you name it. Pre-apocalypse, they’d be pretty useless for the average household, but for you, it’s the difference between a warm or cold bath, or a hot and fully cooked meal. Or germ-free water. Your guest is still in bed as you carefully bring everything back down, though you can’t really tell if he’s awake or not from this distance.

Deciding on the side of caution, you quietly continue on with your tasks, allowing him the rest without causing too much of a ruckus. The pan on the charged hotplate gently bubbles with water as you begin to grind other ingredients. Your only reprieve from the day’s heat is the cold stone of the cave floor, somehow still able to suck any warmth right out of your legs as you kneel over your project. After wiping your forehead with a stray towel, you continue on, trying to ignore the way the steam clings to your skin.

Once the salve cools, you settle yourself back over your patient, gently tugging at the rags you have pressed against his chest. The wound is still oozing, but no longer dribbling down with wild abandon. You don’t precisely understand the specific biology of the earthborn, and most of them are far different from each other. Still, you would naturally suppose that the presence of magic would aid in his healing. Yet the fact that he came to you, a human without any connection to the earth and her bountiful powers, makes you wonder if his have somehow become severed.

You rinse the skin with water that has been boiled for what your watch has clocked to be twenty minutes, dabbing it over with a clean towel. If he wasn’t awake before, he is now, judging by the way he grunts and moans in a feverish pitch. Once you are satisfied with the cleanliness of the skin, you begin to apply the salve, rubbing it as tenderly as you can over the raw, throbbing mess of flesh across his chest. His knuckles turn white as he grips the sheets beneath him, his breath coming out in hard, brief puffs.

“I need you to sit up,” you tell him, and when he doesn’t seem to understand, you add, “for the bandages.”

He eyes you wearily, but compiles, struggling to get his torso upright without your assistance.

You pack the herbs and salve on beneath the torn strips of a sheet, wrapping the cloth around his chest the way your first aid book shows in its narrated pictures. To be entirely honest, while you have seen your fair share of blood and gore, you’ve never had to tend to someone that isn’t yourself in quite a long while. It’s only a tad bit awkward, as you have to get close up and comfortable with his body, but you carefully ignore the heat of his skin. He doesn’t thrash, or otherwise make your job harder, though the slumping puts you at an odd angle as you tie the rags in loose knots.

He lays right back down, completely flat against your blankets. Absently, you touch the back of your knuckles against his cheek in search of a fever, but the mask is definitely hindering your actions. Carefully, you reach for the silky straps at the side, fingers tangling against his black hair, and you can feel him tense significantly as you gently pull. That doesn’t deter you, however, so you continue to gently remove the mask from his face.

There isn’t anything remotely hideous about his features like you had previously thought. You had expected a kind of beast, one that shares the sharp, pointed muzzle of the mask, perhaps covered in the same, burnt orange fur of his tail, but he’s… remarkably human. If you had not felt a cold suspicion towards anyone who dares to obscure their face, if you had not seen the tail, this creature could very well walk with humans, and none of you would notice. His skin is pale, but you had already gathered that from his bloodied knuckles. There’s a smoothness to his flesh, though, that catches you off guard; no traces of scars or bruises, no cuts or blemishes.

His eyes, though, cause you to pause. Not because he’s staring at you with a surprisingly calm, unblinking gaze, it’s because of the kaleidoscope of colors that swirl and wave in his irises, reds, oranges, yellows, blending and seeping together like molten stone. It must be your imagination, but you’re so very certain that the colors are slowly shifting against and with each other… could there be a soft, subtle glow bleeding out from around his pupils? You think so, though you can’t be sure.

You have to catch yourself because you’re staring a little bit intensely at him, hand still on his cheek, too distracted to actually have taken his temperature. A tad bit sheepishly, you remove yourself from his side, heading over to the little entrance of your cave and finish camouflaging it against any intruders who might come your way. Without sunlight, you have to strike up a few candles so you can see, and without much else to do, you try to tend to whatever needs organizing and cleaning within your cave walls.

This isn’t the first time you’ve had to bar yourself indoors, and you doubt it will be the last. Your cabin fever, though, is exacerbated by the extra person living in your space. While he doesn’t actually do anything beyond resting in your bed, and therefore doesn’t get under your feet while you work, his presence has some sort of weight to it. You’re so hyper-aware of his resting figure as you go about your days, only occasionally stopping to care for him, and the fact you are getting annoyed by his almost nonexistent presence also somehow bugs you.

You have to feed him. Shocking, you know, you hadn’t even thought about the added mouth until you are making breakfast the next morning. Given the fact that you’re pretty confident the heat emanating from his body isn’t a reasonable temperature (in the human sense, at least), you try to make some kind of mushy stew. Luckily for you, he seems fine with eating on his own, propped up on a mountain of pillows and blankets, though you have to help him sit up. The wound on his chest isn’t looking any better, though it isn’t looking any worse, either, so you’re not sure how to deal with that beyond offering some more salve and clean bandages.

Honestly, you didn’t know what to expect when dealing with an earthborn’s biology. You might have thought that his skin would quickly heal itself, but it hasn’t, so you suppose that he must be under the same rules as humans, for that isn’t unheard of. That is super unfortunate for you, because you would like him, and probably the accompanying Bacchanalia out of your fucking territory as quickly as possible, but that doesn’t look like it will end up happening for the next couple of weeks.

So you care for him. Constantly. Every single day, you undo his bandages, washing and boiling each pair the moment it’s off of his body. Probably the most unsettling thing about the encounters is that he doesn’t speak, not one word, unless it somehow pertains to his treatment. You’d ask a question, something like ‘does this hurt,’ and he’d respond with a gruff grunt in either a positive or negative tone. Clearly, he doesn’t like you, staring over your projects with a calm, observant gaze, watching you as you try to reorganize your small book collection.

With the Bacchanalia out and about, you’re not one to go outside unless it’s for an essential. Fortunately, needing to forage and collect water is enough of an excuse for you to leave the cave and actually breathe without feeling the same kind of guilt you might get with just wandering willy-nilly. Sure, the wild cultists worshiping nature are crawling around the land like wild ivy, but you know this part of the earth better than they do. You can go to the bubbling stream to retrieve water and return without being seen, especially since they don’t know all the crooks and crannies you’ve made for the sake of hiding.

This is your home. They aren’t going to take that away from you, even if you’re forced to leave.

The water filter you have is rudimentary but effective. Any harmful pathogens have extensive obstacles to overcome, sand, charcoal, stones, the works, and you have yet to get sick after drinking water that’s been twice-run through your filter. Good thing, too, because boiling your water takes far too much energy from an unstable source of power, especially in times like these, where you have to take your solar panels down in fear they might give your location away. Even though you have some kind of reserves, the extra mouth is causing an accelerated depletion.

The mask never goes back on. You’re only guess as to why is that perhaps he no longer requires anonymity, you have, after all, already seen his face. Not that that leaves you with any fewer questions than what you’ve started with because lord knows the ways of the earthborn are mysterious as all fuck. You don’t ask, he doesn’t tell, though you’re dying to know why he sleeps with his hand on the darn thing.

One morning, you’re tending to his wounds, gently pulling the bandages, looking over the slowly healing slash. The oozing has long stopped, for one thing, and for another, the actual gash slicing through the skin has gradually shrunk as his flesh repairs itself.

“Soon enough,” you say, “you’ll be good enough to go back on your own.”

He looks at you, still ever so silent, but there’s something else in his gaze that makes you pause.

“Can’t wait to get out of my hair?” You snort, scooping up some of a sticky mixture out of the wooden bowl you’ve carved yourself.

Again, he doesn’t respond, only sucking in his breath as you smear the stuff over his chest like you’ve done so many times before. As you rinse your fingers clean, though, you hear over your shoulder, “how much longer would you say that I need rest?”

“Two more weeks,” you gander, shrugging. “Your body’s been doing better to heal itself as of late, so you should be ready to go out on your own soon enough.”

He mumbles something you don’t catch, but you ignore it, heading out with a glass jug to collect some water. The Bacchanalia are out and about, you can hear the lusty and intense music, one of the voices a little too close for you to be comfortable. This means that you decide to go around the forest in the long way, weaving through the trees as silently as you can manage, going in the opposite direction of the sounds’ many sources.

There are several different paths to get to the stream, and the way you’ve chosen is going to take out a good chunk of your morning. Today is almost as hot as the day you first met the earthborn, crickets shrieking in the grass, sweat dribbling down the nape of your neck and soaking into your shirt. You suppose that if hell exists, this might be what it feels like.

When you get back, lunch is ready, and that might be the most unsettling thing you’ve experienced thus far. You can’t really describe why the earthborn creature making your food gives you an uneasy feeling, but outright refusing to eat might open a can of worms that you don’t wish to deal with. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t moved from the bed except to tend to his own needs, and hasn’t lifted a single finger to help you until now? Slowly, you reach over, accepting the plate with a soft word of thanks, and look down to the mix of greens.

He seems a little bit pleased with your acceptance of his work, sitting cross-legged to the side as he cleans up the mess he made. You watch him, brow furrowed as you eat, his slim fingers rinsing the cutting board that you’ve carved yourself out of boredom one evening. Questions bubble through you, as they have since you first saw him, but this time, you feel them actually rising to the surface.

“Why are you here?” You ask.

He avoids your gaze. “I needed someone to heal me.”

“No, not why you came to me, why you are here.” There, faintly in the distance, the thrumming of drums. “And why they are here, too.”

You can tell he knows something, just by reading his body language. “I don’t control the actions of others.”

It’s a classic deflection, one that causes your suspicion to grow further. “I don’t suppose that they’ll leave when you do, will they?”

He catches on that you’re thinking about kicking him out a bit early because you see a flash of panic running through those soft tiger eyes. Calmly, you remain silent, staring at him as you wait for him to try to dig himself out. Your patience pays off, because he offers, quietly, one sentence, “I didn’t choose to be born like this.”

It doesn’t even come close to answering your question, but you don’t respond, still waiting.

“There’s a hierarchy,” he adds, “and I am not as revered as you might think.”

“Is this your Bacchanalia?” You ask, still managing to remain serene.

“No,” he says, hesitant, “and yes.”

“Elaborate.”

“We are- were- several.” He still will not look at you. “And I do not wish to return.”

You place your hands in your lap and turn back the glaring stare just a tad bit. He has yet to make any trouble for you, so you are inclined to allow him to stay, after all, he seems to fear the Bacchanalia. Though probably not as deeply as you, because you fear a loss of your autonomy, but there’s something about the other deities who rule over the cult that causes him to tense when mentioned. Again, you think back to his arrival, his wound fresh and throbbing, and you have to wonder who might have done such a thing to him.

“Three weeks,” you say, “I made a mistake. You won’t be ready to leave in two weeks, you’ll need those extra days to make sure nothing’s wrong.”

He turns his back to you, but you can see the tension leaving his shoulders.

One of the benefits to him getting better is that he’s able to replace his own bandages. Still, he somehow finds excuses as to why he can’t, his arms hurt, his chest feels strange, you should double-check it for infection, he can’t rub salve over the pinkish skin like you can, and his bandage work is shoddy at best. The last one is true, it’s a little more difficult to wrap the bandages around one’s own chest, but you’re beginning to think that he’s using the rest just to have you up close and personal in his space.

Three weeks pass, you don’t say anything to encourage him to leave. The Bacchanalia drift away. You don’t know why they give up, or what their purpose was in the first place, but you suppose that you don’t especially care about that. All that truly matters is that you’re able to go about your day, as usual, tending to your garden, recarving the runes, and freely going to collect water through the shortcut.

After you do your errands, you come back to find dinner ready and the house clean, almost like he’s trying to convince you that he won’t be a burden anymore. You expect him to try to overstay his welcome, but you didn’t expect the feverish attempts to make himself useful to your everyday life. The blistering heat seems to taper off as midsummer comes to an end, solstice passing with you barely noticing. It’s an odd kind of sedentary lifestyle, to say the least, but it’s not at all as bothersome as you might have thought it would be.

“You don’t have to feel obligated to stay,” you say one day, dabbing at the sliver of scab across his chest.

At first, he doesn’t answer, but then he shrugs, “maybe I like being in your hair.”

“Ha,” you don’t take him seriously, “I’m sure you do.”

“Yes,” he adds, rather insistently.

You glance over your shoulder, looking over him. Do you believe him? Maybe. You turn back around so he can’t see the smile tugging at your mouth.

“I know that you thought of me as a burden,” he says, “but I do not see you as a soulless doctor. You…” he thinks, for a moment, head cocked to the side, “care. You care, even though you pretend not to.”

A puff of air escapes your chest in a wry chuckle, but you don’t try to counter the statement. Doing so would probably only prove his point further.

“I’d like to stay.” His voice is firm.

“You’re welcome to,” you respond.

“I’d like to stay not because it is convenient,” he says, calmly, “but because I want to be with you.”

Something in your chest warms when he says that, but you try to hold yourself together. You don’t know why. Or, maybe you do, you’d just like to ignore it for… well, for many reasons.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, placing a hand on your back, “I know how you are… but do keep in mind that I’m not just here for safety and food.”

Shivers run down your spine.

“You don’t have to give me an answer,” he adds, “you don’t even have to bring this up again. I just want you to know how I feel.”

You clear your throat. “Alright.”

The hand moves away from your back, and you find the sudden lack of touch disappointing. Slowly, you turn back to face him, and you swallow thickly, holding your arm out in his direction.

He smiles gently.


	2. Chapter 2

The humidity of summer lays thick in the air, despite the early morning. Rubbing one eye with the heel of your palm, you tug the basket from the arching branches of a bush as you head over to the nearby river banks, hoping you might find some edible mushrooms growing around in the damp, airy soil.

Ryota is there, standing solid against the current of the stream, his back turned, but his ruddy orange ears atop his head tweak in a way that lets you know that he’s heard your footsteps. The water of the river must be blissfully frigid, with autumn seems to be taking her sweet time in arriving, the sun’s radiation baking the very air itself. You avert your eyes, though, out of modestly, because he’s completely and utterly _naked_ beneath the water.

“How’s the temperature?” You ask, merely for acknowledgment, much less for actual conversation.

“Perfect,” he sounds almost happy, which is a significant change from the wide-eyed, quiet creature he was when you first found him out in the woods.

“That’s good,” you place the basket down and kneel against the mossy ground, digging your fingers around the stones and roots. The one thing on your mind is the mushrooms you plan on using in tonight’s salad, you’ve been waiting for the patch to grow back since you last had them in stew… god, they’re the best.

“You can come in with me?” His tone is carefully neutral.

You’re not entirely certain if it’s a request or an offer, his way of asking for things is to shy away from an actual demand, but given the circumstances, you take it as the latter. “I’m fine right now, but thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, unsure.

“Yeah, I’ll probably go in for the evening.” Stretching out, you stand back up, balancing the basket on your hip. Very, very careful to only look at his eyes, even with the darker temptation to look down south to scope out the kind of length he’s packing, but you still manage to catch a bit in your periphery. “Dinner should be ready soon, but if you’re enjoying yourself, I’ll just set some aside for you to come back to.”

“I can come back with you,” he immediately offers, shifting so that you manage to see _more._

Quickly, you avert your eyes from him entirely. “I’m fine, Ryo.”

“My clothes are right there, get them for me? Please?”

You suck in your breath quietly enough for him not to hear, but comply, stepping over a large rock to find his robes out in the sun, warming. With one hand out in the direction, you _think_ he’s in, you hold the cloth out, your fingers only brushing temporarily against his, though it’s enough for you to note their dampness.

The thought of what he might be capable of with those long, slender fingers fills your brain and blood, a heat rising to your face as you pull your hand back, almost too fast. Trying to scrub the images of his bare body from the insides of your mind, you barely manage to stutter, “I- I’ll just meet you back at the, um, back at the house.”

And then you quickly walk back into the trees, not quite catching if Ryota says anything else. God, you’re such a stupid _perv,_ why does your brain try to immediately dress him down every time you see him? Maybe a cold bath _would_ help you out in that regard. Perhaps you need a moment to yourself where you can relieve some of the tension?

You drop the basket off right by the entrance, knowing that Ryota will most likely take care of that, then head up the hill just a bit so that no one _important_ will hear your struggle. Slowly, you let yourself slide down against the rough trunk of a tree, trying to find the mental state you need in order to get yourself off.

_Fuck,_ fuck, it’s been longer than usual since you last touched yourself, with Ryota clinging to you like a babe in a strange land. The amount of privacy you’re used to has shrunk down so considerably that you’ve almost started humping your pillows in your sleep. Who are you going to think about, you muse, and Ryota’s face worms its way into your mind.

No, you can’t do that. You try to think of literally anyone else, pre-apocalypse, but Ryota keeps fighting to stay in the forefront. Unbidden, your hand snakes its way down south, plunging past the elastic of your underwear, and you close your eyes. Again, despite your attempts to maybe think of some Hollywood sex god instead, there _he_ is, your fantasies beckoning him between your legs.

And he breaks through your actual imagination because you hear his quiet footsteps approaching. You almost scratch a gash into your vagina, trying to tear your hand out of your pants, lungs thick with air as adrenaline pours into your veins. God- you didn’t fucking think he’d try to follow you out, and you have to actively untangle the anger from your throat. “I just need a moment to myself.”

He’s here, his robe askew to the point one sleeve hangs off the shoulder, revealing the milky paleness of his chest and you’re going to _die._ “You don’t-”

You can’t even _look_ at him like this, you’re afraid you’re going to melt into a heated puddle onto the forest floor. “I don’t what?”

There’s a long, tense pause, and he changes the subject. “Do you find me ugly?”

You’re so caught off guard that you turn back around, trying to process each individual word in the sentence to try to comprehend just where it came from. “I don’t- what do you mean?”

“You never look at me,” he says almost too quietly for you to hear, but raises his voice slightly when you won’t turn to meet his eyes, “even now.”

_I’m afraid what I’ll think of if I look at you._ You’ve never been more thankful not to be a man in your life. “I’m sorry, it’s not… it’s not your fault.”

“Do you find me ugly?” He asks again, _stepping closer._

You’re going to die, you think, as you try to glance over to find his face, pinching yourself, so your eyes don’t wander, managing to rasp a simple, “I don’t.”

He bends over, kneeling by your side, and you’re suddenly very aware that your legs are open in a very _sexual_ way. You try to nonchalantly shut them as he speaks. “Then why don’t you like to look at me?”

You don’t want to say it, you _don’t,_ a strand of humiliation wrapping around your throat and tightening. Briefly, you wonder if the bacchanalia he came from follows the kind of reputation that most of them do. A flash of him expertly pressing his lips against yours traitorously flashes behind your eyes and you have to look away, _again._ Finally, you manage to voice to work. “I think… I think I may be afraid.”

“Of what?” He’s close, _too_ close, you’re going to lose your mind. “I would never hurt you, you know that, yes?”

“Not of that.” Surely he can hear your heart beating loud enough to be a shotgun blast. “I think… I think that I’m afraid of myself.”

He sits, hands perfectly rested on his knees, long, slender fingers tap, tap, tapping against his knees as he thinks what you said over. Hesitantly, he says softly, “so you do not resent me?”

A little bit, yes, but you don’t think that the reasoning is the same. “I resent myself,” you say, looking straight out into the woods instead of facing him.

Is he inching closer? Good lord, you’re going to fucking _die._ “Why do you resent yourself? Did I do something to make you angry?”

“No,” you have to physically keep yourself from shaking. “It’s nothing you’ve done.”

“Can I help?” He’s so close that you feel his breath on your neck.

“I don’t think it’s something you can help with,” you almost choke, avoiding eye contact, “I’ll take care of it myself.” Inwardly, you cringe so hard you almost fold in on yourself from the stupid wording. Why did you say it like _that?_

Before you can get up, he _leans in closer,_ and you’re sure that the sound of you trying to swallow away the lump in your throat can be heard in a fifty miles radius. A new, hotter wetness is pooling between your legs, and by the way his nose seems to intake air, you’re almost afraid he can smell your arousal. He places a hand on your leg, right at your thigh, and suddenly _he_ is the one that seems like he’s going to melt away.

“Why won’t you let me take care of you, though? I’d like to.” His chest heaves for a moment, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips, your eyes trailing the movement like a bird of prey.

With a hesitant breath, because you _can not believe this is happening,_ you manage to say, “I don’t want you to think like- like you _owe_ this to me.”

He shakes his head, coming closer, and you can _smell_ his scent, like the outdoors, green and bright and _warm._ Instead of answering, he places a wandering hand on the mossy ground, in between your legs and moves his lips right up next to your ear, his words barely more than a breathless whisper. “I want you.”

Oh, _god._

“Do you really?” You ask, feeling like the very earth beneath you move away, as though you are floating off into an eternal abyss. “Are you sure?”

He leans forward slightly, pressing his lips up against the shell of your ear, and you feel a shiver dance down your spine. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you in the forest.”

“W-what?”

“Before I was punished,” his breath warms your neck as his chaste kisses make their way down to your shoulder, “I saw you, helping a rabbit with a broken leg.”

That was a few weeks before he arrived, bloodied and bruised, onto your doorstep. Trying not to let out a gasp as he pulls your leg out and over to his side, you whimper, “you saw that?”

He mumbles something in a language you don’t recognize, but have heard him speak of before, in soft increments. “Yes, I was scouting for more people to join the sacred sect, to _enlighten you,_ but you were already kind, nurturing the earth for food instead of ravaging it.”

“Oh,” you whisper softly, unsure of how to respond. Was it… strange? Yes, it was strange. But is it unwelcome? “So you… you didn’t tell them?”

“No, not at all, but they found out, they always do.” He traces the scar across his chest, the bright pink skin what’s left of the wound. “But I kept you a secret, don’t worry.”

That- the wound was _because of you?_ You suck in your breath as he leans forward, and you lean back, your back hitting the ground. A thousand questions click and snap in your head, voiceless and garbled with the heat between your thighs, making it almost impossible to concentrate. Swallowing, you manage a mere, “why?”

“I wanted you,” he whispers almost deliriously.

“You could have had me if you were truthful to your brethren” the prospect fills your blood with dread, but you remind yourself that he’s on top of you… in _your_ forest.

“I wanted _you_ to want me, too.” He nuzzles his face in the crook of your shoulder. “And I don’t like to share.”

“Oh,” you say in a quiet breath, tangling your fingers around a long strand of his hair that drapes around your head like a curtain.

And you kiss him.

The kiss starts out soft, easy, and noncommittal, but as you pull him downward with your woven fingers, his body pressing firmly up against yours. And his lips… they’re _starving,_ his muscle tense as though physically restraining himself. It only takes a few moments for his tongue to snake it’s way into your mouth, his advancements _more_ than welcome.

It could be a decade or a century since you’ve last made love, and your very body _sings_ with the weight thrust upon it. Letting out a pathetic whine, you _keen_ your waist up to his, feeling the first blossom of an erection peeping out from his roads. During the few moments you’ve managed to sneak a look, you noticed the _girth,_ and have wanted him in you so badly you couldn’t even focus on your words _._

You want him _now._

“What do you need?” You choke, almost too afraid to make any requests on your own behalf.

He is kind, though, and responds so very gently into your ear. “To please you. I need, _oh,_ to please you.”

You’re going to cry, because you _don’t know where you want him to start._ Voice trembling, you raise your legs to show him you’re ready. “How did you imagine pleasing me?”

He’s almost shaking, his breath hard and panting with effort. There’s a thick rod pressing up against your thigh, you can almost feel its pulsing need for your between two layers of clothes. Enraged at the aspect of _wearing pants,_ you wriggle out of them, Ryota seeming at ease with digging his nails beneath the fabric to help you out. The earth is cool and fair against your bare skin, a tad bit of moisture working to fight against the summer’s heat.

“Tell me,” you ask again, almost unsure of if your voice is about to give out, “please, tell me how you thought to please me.”

There’s a steady grinding between your thighs as he says, “Kissing you all over to make you feel wet.”

_You’re already so wet,_ you think, a thrumming in your body _sings._ But you try to continue steadily on, agreeing, “I think that would help, yes.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, pressing his mouth up to your exposed collarbone. The heat in your core grows larger. His breath is deliciously warm against your goose-bumping flesh, you notice, managing to wriggle the hem of your shirt up over your breast. Ryota wastes no time latching onto one nipple, his tongue almost _sharp_ against the pointed, sensitive flesh.

You don’t think you can survive this.

With little thought for his own comfort, he slides downwards, leaving a trail of hickies as he latches onto your skin and _sucks,_ all the while your core gushes more with every nip, lick, and kiss. He lifts your leg over his shoulder, his shuddering breath cool against the puckered skin of your pussy, sending thrills of shivering shocks up through your spine. He’s like that for a moment, eyes almost closed as he takes your scent in, then leans forward to offer up a single lick, ass to clit.

Unbidden, you _gasp,_ because you’re so lost in the moment you almost forget yourself. God, it’s been long- so, _so_ long since you’ve had another being between your legs, and your body is _ready._

Ryota seems to appreciate the noise, pressing up against your clit with his tongue, eyes almost crazed with intensity. After a moment of teasing, he kisses at the pooling slit somewhere lower, and you feel… horrendously ready to cum already. An animalistic part of you would like nothing more than to slam your thighs around his face, grip his hair, and ride out your pleasure here and now. He’d let you, too, and he’d probably _enjoy_ it, but the logical side murmurs that if you take it _slow_ and draw things out, your orgasm might be the one to outshine anything you’ve had before.

So you lean back, closing your eyes, and let him take his time, the feeling of carnal desperation pumping thickly through your blood. And he knows what he’s doing, too, you suppose that the reputation of the bacchanalia cults must be true. One of his arms wraps around your waist, anticipating your squirming as he takes your clit between his lips and fucking _sucks._

He pulls back to begin exploring your flower more, using his fingers to open your lips up further for a better view. You’re so exposed that you can feel the air, which seemed horrendously warm just minutes before, which cools the broiling heat between your legs. Again, Ryota takes a moment to sloppily kiss the exposed skin, his teeth pressing up hard enough for the thrill, though not to hurt.

Mindlessly, you reach down for his silky hair, running your fingers over his scalp. Against your skin, the black strands look like lines of ink, dark, geometrical, almost like someone drew a pattern against your hand and wrist with a purpose. As if he’s made for you. Without even realizing that you’re so much as opening your mouth, you passively say, “you’re beautiful.”

He pauses, then looks back up at you. Voice almost _broken,_ he says, “Oh. Thank you.”

It takes you a moment to fully process the interaction because you weren’t paying much attention beyond where his tongue pleasures you, and by that point, there’s a building in your core that steals your focus away. As you whine, your back arches, pulling your hand from the strands of his hair to claw at the earth itself in hopes it might ground you. But you’re close, _too close,_ and you don’t want to be gone, not yet.

“Stop,” you demand, pressing your fingers up against his forehead. _” Stop.”_

He obeys, pulling up and away from your quivering core, and your basic instincts _scream_ at you in anger for ending the pleasure. “What? What’s wrong, did I hurt you?”

“No,” you shake your head, “but I’d like to cum with you inside of me.”

“Oh.” again, his voice almost quivers, and he seems entirely unfamiliar with the kind of demands you make. “Y-yes, alright.”

“Come here,” you almost murmur, your voice low but enticing. “Please.”

“Anything for you,” he whispers almost quietly enough for you to miss as he obeys, pressing his mouth against yours in a lust-filled, yet still gentle, kiss. You can still taste yourself on his lips, the damp your body made just for him, to welcome him into your core.

His robes have more layers than you initially expected, though you’ve seen him dress and undress plenty of times, even if you _do_ avert your eyes. You tug at the sash across his waist, managing to find where it’s fastened and pull it loose, and Ryota rewards you with a few robust kisses as he peels the outer layer of faded silk off only to reveal yet _another_ robe beneath it.

You hiss impatiently. “How many of these do you have on?”

He chuckles good-naturedly, giving you a nip on the shell of your ear. “Enough.”

Thankfully, the white layer is the last, you think you’d go _insane_ if you had to slog through even two more, and by the way Ryota is breathing heavily, you know he feels the same way. You share one last _clothed_ kiss as you managed to remove it, pulling the sleeves down his shoulders and discarding the woven fabric somewhere… just, _away_ from the matters at hand.

You can feel him there, experimentally pressing his flushed length up against your lips, and there’s a thrill of _relief_ at the mere idea of how close you are to being filled. His hair is like a waterfall that pours the depths of a great void out around his angelic face, his eyes like stars that beckon you with the promise of ecstasy. As he slowly presses the tip up through your entrance, and you try not to be so overcome with the moment that you lose focus of his face.

To help bring yourself back down from the high of pleasure his slowly sheathing cock offers, you try to trace the contours of his face with your thumb, following the path of his nose, then the outline of his mouth. Again, though more to yourself, you observe, “you’re beautiful.”

His hips splutter at the second declaration, his breath hitching. _God,_ you can see how badly he’s wanted you, just at this moment, his eyes melting like syrup at the mere idea you might find him attractive. As he thinks of a response, you angle your hips to better accommodate him, and now it’s _his_ turn to melt back into the earth.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, but your brain is nothing more than sludge, “I know.”

Ryota loses himself in you. It takes a moment for your body to stretch around him- his length _is_ impressive, or at least you think it is… or maybe the isolation has lowered your body’s standards, whatever the case, once he’s sure you’re comfortable, he’s thrusting into you with a pace that _ravages_ you. Like him, you’re _lost,_ the feeling of his body inside yours so soon after he pleasured you with his mouth? It’s almost too much, too fast.

But he manages to slow to a more leisurely pace, his breath choking and yearning. You’re not sure which of you is enjoying the simple act of sex more, it feels like it’s been an eternity for both your bodies. The friction between his length and your inner walls crescendos, his breath desperate and uneven, so you take the reigns. You flip over, using your hips to beckon him to twist beneath you. His eyes relax at the prospect of no longer having to set your pace, and he lies down, almost _shaking,_ on the moss.

Fuck… _fuck,_ the way his pale, milky skin stands out from the greens and browns of the ground. _Fuck._ The way he looks at you doesn’t help the matter either, he gazes at you with… such _adoration,_ a kind of worshipping ferver, it sends a special breed of pleasure through your nerves, pooling nicely into your core. You place a hand on his chest, tracing the scare with your finger, fixating on the fact of how he _risked_ so much on behalf of… well, _you._

It doesn’t take too much longer for your body to fully come to terms with its pleasure, your knees almost itching with how hard they’re digging into the earth. A shudder dances up your spine, there’s a familiar, taught clenching in your core, and you’re in ecstasy. Loved. _Adored._

He’s quick to follow, almost as though he was waiting for you to climax first. A hot, thick liquid fills you to the brim, his voice strangling with praise for _you,_ for your body, for your spirit, for your _self._ You almost become aroused enough for a second round at his endless praise, but as you lay against his chest and allow your heartbeats to align, you decide that you have been satiated.

For now.

“Thank you,” you say, limp from exhaustion, ear at his chest, “for not reporting me.”

He lets out a breath, his own fingers coming up to rest at your scalp. “Thank you,” he whispers, hoarsely, “for loving me the way I am.”


End file.
